


a lack of color

by thewordweaver



Series: break & repair [2]
Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Mild Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-19
Updated: 2016-10-19
Packaged: 2018-08-23 11:29:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8326093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewordweaver/pseuds/thewordweaver
Summary: But I know it's too late; I should have given you a reason to stay.





	1. this is fact not fiction for the first time in years

**Author's Note:**

> hiya hello just reposting things that I had deleted from my old old very old asianfanfics account lmao  
> I am very much not really in the kpop scene anymore so these are just here for the sake of being here
> 
> date originally posted on aff.com: late 2012

Sunlight.

Shifting by the shoe rack.

The stirring of a body on the couch.

A gasp. A staredown.

Feet shuffle as they return to the door.

"Where are you going?"

"None of your business."

A clipped response. Familiar and yet foreign.

"Is it wrong to care?"

"Since when did you care!?"

A startled face receives the outburst.

"Do you even know what this feels like? You said nothing, you  _ did _  nothing! And you have the balls to say that you actually  _ cared _ !?"

A fuse is lit.

"You say you care and yet you don't even see—"

An impromptu ending piques curiosity. A turn on heels morphs it into suspicion.

The creaking of a couch, the patter of a run, and the slap of a grip result in a twirl. A shirt ruffles and the bomb detonates.

The shards of a heart fall silently to the ground.

"You promised you'd stop... you said no matter what, you wouldn't anymore..."

Red glares violently on a porcelain plain, the curtain of cotton slowly covering it once more. A touch that is meant to heal hurts instead.

The recoil is a silent conversation; the glower turns the shards to ashes.

Crinkling paper makes the voice difficult to decipher. A throat goes dry and the crinkling increases. "You're not the only person you hurt when you do that..."

"How do you even know what this feels like!?" The force of the words and the force of the shove incites a stumble, not only of feet, but on lips as well. "Sehun, please, I—"

The response is succinct: the sound of stomping rattles the ground before the slam of the door echoes throughout the dorm.

The scene is internally etched, replaying, a video stuck on repeat. Water spouts from above, in hopes that the ink will swirl away down the drain with it. But the sorrow is not ink on paper. It is a tattoo, engraved into skin.

A clean body returns to the couch, now molded to the shape, but the smell of body wash and the fluff of comfortable cushions do nothing to calm a racing mind. Sitcoms and dramas cannot elicit the emotions they are meant to receive; the trivial lives of female celebrities cannot distract with the entertainment they are meant to give.

Each time the door creaks open, a face peeks out from behind the arm of the couch; each time, disappointment drips into an already brimming heart.

At 6pm sharp, it overflows.

Glass bottles conquer the coffee table in the span of an hour. Inebriation outweighs pride as a number is dialed into a phone. When voicemail answers the call instead, eyes glance at the ever-ticking clock on the wall.

7:03pm.

"Sehun, please. I'm sorry, I really am." The words slur, tumbling off of a thick, clumsy tongue. "I'll take back every thing I said... I just want you back. I just need to know that you're safe. I just need to know that you're okay.

"Please come home."

A voicemail is left every thirty minutes after that. A text is sent every fifteen.

And alcohol burns every ten.

Eyes fall closed around two in the morning, the late night show left on to entertain the twenty-five empty bottles keeping company through the night.

When the door opens quietly at 7am, a muttered swear escapes otherwise silent lips. News anchors are silenced and the bottles are collected, clinking as they are placed into the recycling bin.

The shuffling feet return to the couch, eyes trailing from the arm that hangs limply from warm cushions and a protective sheet to the lonely cell precariously abandoned on the floor. Another is fished from a pocket and a soft chuckle accompanies the chirping coming from the phone that has just come to life. "Fifteen calls and thirty text messages..."

At the sound, stirring occurs and eyes open blearily. Confusion momentarily crease eyebrows and a hesitant hand is outstretched, smooth fingerpads brushing over sculpted cheekbones. "You're back..." The voice is croaky, tired.

Relieved.

"I'm sorry."

The hand is now held between two colder, paler, comforting palms.

Lethargy takes over once again and muffles the voice that lulls the calmed mind gently into sleep. But before eyelids flutter and shut, lips are read clearly, sound unnecessary to understand.

"I'm home."


	2. I should have given you a reason to stay

A shadow emerges from the hallway, seeing the two forms in the living room: one rests peacefully on the couch and the other sleeps comfortably slumped over the edge. Their hands are entwined, fingers laced together intimately.

Chuckling, he retreats and returns to the living room with a blanket in hand, unfolding and draping it over the one on the floor. Smiling solemnly to himself, he murmurs, "I'm sorry too."

Kneeling down beside him, he runs his hand through the head of hair, for what he knows will be the last time.

**Author's Note:**

> this isn't a comment from when I originally posted it but holy hell was this hard to write without any person-oriented nouns or pronouns
> 
>  
> 
> [personal twitter](http://www.twitter.com/lesimperatrices)  
> 


End file.
